


Slay Me

by Fruipit



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drabbles, F/F, Sexual Tension, Tumblr Prompts, UST, they vary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-22 05:12:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9584963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fruipit/pseuds/Fruipit
Summary: Series of widowtracer and lenily drabbles written on Tumblr (mostly because they're short and I'm too lazy to think up individual names). The fics are happier than the title





	1. Entertain Me

**Author's Note:**

> from rankannko on tumblr: _alright, a prompt! So, for any ship that you'd like, just put tracer there: how would a lazy weekend start in that household?_  
>  This diverged from that. potentially ooc but it was the first thing I ever wrote for this fandom.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alright, a prompt! So, for any ship that you'd like, just put tracer there: how would a lazy weekend start in that household?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from rankannko on tumblr :) This diverged from that. potentially ooc but it was the first thing I ever wrote for this fandom.

Tracer’s definition of a ‘lazy weekend’ isn’t exactly the same as everyone else’s.

For instance: most people _don’t_  like getting up at five-am to go for a quick (hah! quick!) zip around the city.

Technically, it is a sleep-in. She usually gets up at four.

She’s not one for being static. It’s an indispensable skill, really, especially when on a mission, that she’s the last to go quiet, and the last to sit still. It’s a distraction – and, perhaps while at headquarters, it’s not as well-tolerated by some (Angela, for instance, has banned her from the med bay unless it’s “actually an emergency, Lena, for the love of _everything_  please don’t run near my equipment!”)

Of course, it means she gets bored easily.

By the end of the weekend, she’s usually crossed the city a dozen times on foot. Sometimes she’ll even challenge herself and say the floor is lava or something. Means she never has to wait in a traffic jam again.

Gosh, and that’s only _Saturday._

Sometimes she’ll get lucky – figuratively and metaphorically. A girl’s got her skills (though seduction isn’t one of hers). But, people like her. She’s happy and cheerful and fun to hang out with (even… even if it doesn’t happen much with her colleagues).

She tries. Goes out to lunch sometimes with Angela. Hangs about Winston, until she gets in the way (also he’s such a workaholic _ugh_ ).

So, she makes her own fun. Doesn’t call them dates, coz they’re not. It’s… an experience. One she’s not gonna forget, but also one she’s not likely to repeat.

Well… not until _her_.


	2. Make Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous: _How about Widowmaker flirting like hell in the middle of a fight with Tracer which causes her to make mistakes like blinking into walls?_  
>  this was fun. not as much action as they probably wanted, but still :)

The first time she’d said it, Tracer hadn’t thought anything of it.

The second time…

“Ah, _ma petite cherie_. You could not stay away, I see.”

Tracer had enough high school French (and Orphan Black) inside her to know what Widowmaker had just said. She just didn’t know _why_.

“Ah, come on, love. You ain’t that special.” 

“Non, perhaps not. Though, you cannot deny something.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

Widow smirked. “My ass is… _magnifique_.”

The expression fell when Tracer blinked out of existence for a second. Right after, a pained, “Ow….” could be heard the next rooftop over, followed by a, “You broke my nose!”

In the span of another second, she recalled back, standing once again in front of the sniper. She certainly didn’t _look_  like she had a broken nose, but…

Taking two purposeful steps forward, and then another two as Tracer backed away, Widow bent so she could stare the shorter woman in the eyes. Her hands came to press on Tracer’s hips, eliciting a hiccup of a gasp as they climbed higher, running over the backs of Tracer’s arms.

“Très intéressant,” she murmured, before pulling away. Tracer stared at her for a moment, chest heaving, before she noticed what was now in Widow’s hands.

“Oi! Give ‘em back!”

Widow held one pistol in each hand. She didn’t even look at Tracer for a moment before a wicked smirk lit her face.

_“Make me.”_


	3. It's Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracer presenting Emily to Lucio, but not realizing how much if a fangirl Emily really was, and now it's been a while and she's feeling a bit jealous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt from an anon. idk what happened with this one but i hope you like it lol :D i really liked the prompt :) (i really hate my characterisation of lucio but idk enough about him)(and i dont like the ending but eh)

At first, it was adorable. 

Emily had been _so excited_ to meet Lúcio. Lena wasn’t really all that surprised. She may or may not have had a bit of a… reaction… when she first met the sensation.

Plus, he was a pretty rad guy.

She’d expected the smile on Emily’s face when she brought her girlfriend into work for a ‘surprise’. She’d expected to hear all about it later.

She hadn’t expected to _still_  be hearing about it, a week later.

And it wasn’t over-the-top or anything. It was little things.

It was when Emily went out the next day and splurged on the another copy of _Synaesthesia Auditiva._ Of course, she already had the album. This was the _super deluxe_ edition.

It was when Lena brought home take-out from the new burger joint a few blocks down, and Emily said, “Oh, wow. You know that Lúcio’s favourite food is actually curly fries? Who woulda thought!”, leaving Lena to wonder both  _how_ they’d gotten onto the topic of favourite food, and also _why_.

It was when she asked if it were possible to see him again because she had Thoughts on the album and she’d also love to really just have another chat?

Tracer wasn’t one for jealousy. 

Lena was.

Though it was hard to keep the smile on her face when Lúcio came up to her, an envelope in his hand.

“VIP seats for Em and you,” he said, teeth shining. “I heard her birthday’s coming up and thought she’d like it.”

All she could do is smile and take them, even when her heart settled in her stomach. He was right – Emily would _love_  it.

And she did. Her whole face lit up and she just _had_  to take a photo and tell all her friends because they’d be so jealous too! Oh, and they’d better go shopping for something fun to wear and wow this was going to be the best birthday ever!

All Lena could do was offer a half-hearted smile before offering to go out for pizza or something. Em didn’t even notice, really.

It got a little better. Emily stopped talking about it as much, probably trying to contain her excitement until the night. Lena’s jealousy faded, and everything seemed to go back to normal.

This was okay. It was good.

That is, until the night of the concert.

Lúcio had been really kind, and she could certainly appreciate the effort he put into giving them the seats. There was a bottle of wine, cooling in an ice-bucket, and some really tasty entrées. Emily kept smiling at her, literally on the edge of her seat. When Lúcio came onstage, she didn’t quite squeal, though she did give him a huge wave.

Lena’s mood plummeted when he beamed, and waved right back. When Emily turned to her, smiling and pointing, she managed to bring up a smile. It was enough.

“Woo, alright! Can you feel the beat?” Lúcio cried out. The sound of thousands of cheering fans was enough of an answer. “Now, a special friend of mine is here tonight. Can y’all give it up for Emily! Happy birthday girl!”

This time, when Emily turned to her girlfriend, she’d disappeared.

* * *

“Stupid- bloody- stupid- _ugh_. Knew I wouldn’t enjoy meself- god.” Lena stopped pacing the empty bathroom to stare at herself in the mirror. She could hear the low notes of the music; the bass and the beat, mostly. Explained why the loo was empty, at any rate.

She looked… sad. Not angry, which was a bit of a surprise. Surely, jealousy makes you angry? Needy, wanting, but for bad reasons? But she was none of that. She just…

Sighing, she looked away. Probably best to go back. Chances are, Em hadn’t even noticed she was gone – a thought that only made her heart sink lower and a chill brush up her arms.

Or, maybe that was the door opening, her bewildered girlfriend standing at the entrance.

“Oh, er, hiya, love. Just had to pop to the loo – yknow how it is—”

“Lena.”

_Oh dear._

“What’s wrong?”

_What?_

Emily dipped her head as she leant against the doorframe. “You’ve been acting weird for weeks. _What’s wrong_?” She looked up, and Lena found herself unable to look in her girlfriend’s eyes. This time, her gaze met the floor.

But, she didn’t say anything. Didn’t look up even as Emily stepped into the bathroom, shoes echoing on the tiles. They were nice shoes, too. Bought new along with the rest of Em’s outfit. It had cost a small fortune, but Lena had been happy to foot that particular bill.

“Lena, please look at me.”

Dragging her eyes from the floor, they didn’t actually make it to Emily’s face because the redhead had taken Lena’s hands, holding them tight between them. Suddenly, she felt very small.

They returned to the concert without saying anything else, though perhaps (probably) Emily knew. She didn’t sit on her own seat – she sat on Lena. Kept a firm grasp of her hand the entire night.

Declined to go backstage. “Nah, we’re stuffed. Your shows are _exhausting,_ Lúcio! Perhaps next time!”

Of course, that just made Lena feel worse. Now Emily was missing out because she’d gotten a little green. How was that fair?

“I’m sorry…” she said softly, just as they left the arena. Emily was hailing down a cab, but it was obvious she’d heard her.

“For what?” she asked. 

“I’m sorry for getting jealous. Ruining your fun. Lúcio’s a great guy, and a great artist, and it was stupid of me to get upset that you liked him. You’re my girlfriend and I shouldn’t be so possessive.”

“Lena, I’m not- there’s only one reason you should be sorry right now, and those aren’t it.”

Just then, she managed to grab a cabbie’s attention. She didn’t say anything else, either, leaving Lena to wonder what she should be sorry for. She was sorry. How could she be sorry for the wrong reasons?

Even by the time they got home, she hadn’t figured out the answer. Her offer to stay on the couch that night was met with an incredulous look, and she quickly rescinded the offer.

She still hadn’t figured it out.

“Em…” she started softly, once they were both in bed, the only light being the cloudy moon outside. “I don’t… know what I’m supposed to be sorry about…”

Emily sighed. “You’re such a silly goose,” she said, equally quiet. “I don’t care that you were jealous- no, wait. I do care because I played a part in making you feel that way. But, Lena… why didn’t you just _tell me_?”

She gave a pathetic shrug. “It made you happy. I didn’t want to take that away from you.”

She wasn’t expecting Emily to surge forward, pressing her lips anywhere they could reach.

“The only happiness I care about being taken away is you, Lena,” she said. “As long as that doesn’t happen, I’m always going to be happy.”


	4. Touch Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Widowmaker got the mission of killing Emily, so Tracer would be hit. But seeing both of them so happy, she would give up. It would be nice to see what passes trough her head and if she does anything with them later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt from rankannko :) this fic went pretty much the exact way i wanted it to tbh. hope you like it :) (i wanted to write more but it wasn’t working but i wouldnt be opposed to doing a second part if the muse strikes :P) (i get the feeling my fics are a bit… unfulfilling)

It would be so simple, she mused. So _easy_. Mon dieu, she’d had harder times taking out easier opponents.

This girl – Lena Oxton, Tracer, _whatever_. The one with the glowing chest, the one who _wasn’t_  her target – she really wasn’t very proactive with personal safety. Then again, she hadn’t (the first and only time they’d met) given the impression she cared all that much.

…Except, perhaps, for the odd receptacle on her chest.

Obviously, it meant a lot to her – so, did this other girl not?

There they sat, in front of a small TV and behind wide open curtains. She was leaning against the target; a redhead. Perhaps slightly older.  Definitely taller.

Emily, her name was. She she was so, disappointingly, regular.

She’d walk the same path to the subway every day for work. Eat lunch at the same café. Call her girlfriend at the same time, and end with the same phrase.

Talon had been following her for three weeks. Widow had been following her for three _days_.

It would be so _simple_.

Picking up her rifle, she levelled the scope at the open window. It would be a breeze, to kill them both.

But that wasn’t what Talon wanted. They wanted to send a message – a waste of time, in Widow’s opinion. But, she wasn’t one to argue.

Peering down the scope, she took a breath. Lined up the shot. 

And… paused.

This was new.

The target hadn’t quite moved out of Widow’s sight – she had moved closer to her partner.

Oh _dieu_ , Widow shouldn’t be forced to look at this. Yeuch.

Not only had the target initiated _affairs_  with her partner, but Widow’s opportunity had been lost.

One shot, one kill. Not two.

Still, she kept her eyes trained on the pair – and heavens they should really learn to close the curtain – waiting for her opportunity to strike, even as an indescribable sensation filled her. It sat low in her gut, sending out tendrils to her heart and to her head.

Only one of those organs worked, and it listened to nobody but _her_.

Swallowing, she let out a breath. Her fingers tingled, though she remembered enough of her former life to identify what she _wasn’t_  feeling.

It wasn’t lust, or arousal. It wasn’t dread, or anger. It wasn’t impatience.

She had an idea of what it could be, before promptly discarding the thought. She had no use for it here.

Focusing again on her target, it took a few seconds to center herself when she saw the smiles on their faces. Their touches, impossibly gentle even from so far away.

Lena toppled off the couch, leaving Emily to stare before she burst into giggles.

Widow didn’t shoot.

She sat up, kissing Emily’s legs as she climbed higher.

Widow’s finger twitched on the trigger, but no shot rang out.

Emily threw her head back as Lena reached her hips.

Widow sucked in a breath and lowered the scope.

It looked like  _la petite mort_  wouldn’t include her bullet tonight.


	5. That Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Widow, Tracer, a roof, and the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> actual prompt (from anonymous) was: Something like, stargazing at a park or somewhere else? Something romantic, I guess.
> 
> Now, I don’t know if widow is capable of being romantic. So, I decided to go with that.

She’s incapable of romanticisms. It’s not part of her training, not part of the conditioning.

Perhaps, it’s not really part of her, either. Gérard, before he’d passed – before she’d killed him – would always go out of his way to show his love. Show his appreciation for her.

Amélie never did the same. If she ever had the ability, she never gave it to Widow.

But, that’s not to say Amélie didn’t love him. She did, in her own way.

Widow doesn’t regret killing him. She doesn’t feel much, actually. Sometimes, Amélie resurfaces, bringing up things she’d rather not feel, but that never lasts long.

The poor woman is no match for Widow.

Though, she doesn’t always have to be.

She’s sneaky, but not in the way that Widow is. She doesn’t lurk, creeping in dark corners, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

No, she finds weaknesses and exploits them, forcing her way into the forefront of Widow’s mind. She never takes control – is never fast enough – but it’s enough to leave a tiny thought; a tiny trail of a tiny emotion that Widow just can’t seem to quash.

It makes her want to smile.

It makes her want to try.

It makes her want to _feel_.

* * *

She’s leaning against a chimney, eyes closed and Widow’s Kiss next to her, when a familiar _fwwwp_ sounds nearby.

She doesn’t move – doesn’t even open her eyes. Knows enough to know the stranger won’t attack on sight.

Dieu, all these “heroes” are the same, and Lena Oxton is no exception.

And yet, she can’t help but be drawn to her. She is different, though Widow doesn’t quite understand why, yet.

She opens her eyes to see two energy pistols levelled at her.

“A’right, luv. Easy now. No quick movements.”

“Bonsoir, chérie. The stars are beautiful tonight, no?”

Her eyes lift to the sky, but not before taking in a bemused expression. Even with the light, polluting the air above them, the moon was still full and bright; it cast an ethereal glow, matched only by the strange device on Lena’s chest.

Lena. It’s a nice name, Widow muses.

A small – very small – part of her wonders briefly what it would be like to be Amélie again.

“What’re you doin’ ‘ere?” Lena – no, her counterpart. Tracer – wonders. She hasn’t lowered the pistols yet. Widow gives her a look.

“Stargazing,” she says.

“Okay. What’re you doin’ stargazing _on my roof?”_

Widow doesn’t have an answer for that one. Not an answer Lena would accept.

Not an answer _she_  would accept. 

When she says nothing but, “Would you like to join me, chérie?”, it’s as close to an admission she’ll give.

Finally, Lena lowers her pistols. She’s still wary – and a darker part of Widow smiles at that; she _should be scared_ – and yet she still moves forward.

Throws the guns next to Widow’s rifle and jumps up onto the chimney behind her.

“No funny business, a’right luv?” she says.

This time, Widowmaker smiles in earnest. “Non, ma chère. No funny business.”

There are cracks in her defences, in her training. Cracks that Amélie would exploit and expose.

But not tonight. Tonight, it’s just Widow and Lena.

Perhaps that’s all she needs anyway.

They stay there until the sky pinkens with the rising sun, enshrouding the stars with light. 

It takes away the peace.

When the first sliver of gold peeks over the horizon, Widow moves away, picking up her rifle. Lena doesn’t move. Just looks.

“Adieu, chérie,” Widow says, a stark parallel to their first meeting. No laughter follows this time. No pain or guilt.

Lena watches as she swings away, over rooftops and out of site, and she knows it won’t be the last time.

Prays it won’t be the last time.


	6. pas moi, partie un

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WHAT IF: Amelié had for some reason, developed split personalities, her normal one and Widowmaker's. How would she deal with all the stuff Talon forced her to do and what she would say to her other side about Tracer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (from nony :) )
> 
> lol you know this is something i want to believe in, canonically (and i do, to a degree). widowmaker being created from the pain talon caused, but amélie is still there – if widow didn't care, why would she visit her husband's grave at christmas?
> 
> (also disclaimer: this is not meant to be a fic about DID. Perhaps, to a degree, that's what Widow does have, but that's not really what im going for. widow and amelie exist simultaneously, though, being stronger mentally, i think widow is more 'in control' of what happens. also, i don't think amelie would interfere, either, regardless of what happens. widow is probably the only reason she's still alive, and that counts for something)

Amélie hated her – one of the few things in Widow’s life that she had absolutely no doubt about.

But, that was fair. To a degree, she hated Amélie, too.

Hated her for being weak. Hated her for forcing Widow into such a situation.

Amélie hated herself for that, too. Hated having to rely on Widow. Hated Widow for her loose morals. For giving in to the conditioning.

That didn’t mean they couldn’t get along. Couldn’t work together.

Widow dealt with Talon. Amélie couldn’t. It was for the best; of course Talon knew Amélie still existed. They just didn’t realise the extent to which Widow communicated with her. If they did, she’d be forced into reconditioning.

So, Amélie wouldn’t interrupt. She wouldn’t let her thoughts, angered and upset, bleed through on missions. She wouldn’t stay Widow’s hand when a target was in sight.

She wouldn’t let Widow feel what she felt.

At least… not until the Mondatta Incident.

* * *

Widow spent the ride home thinking about the odd hero.

Or rather, she spent it listening to _Amélie_  thinking about the odd hero.

It seemed stupid and petty to shut her up when she frankly didn’t care.

Amélie would do this sometimes anyway. It helped, having someone else to look over enemies, point out flaws and problems that Widow may have overlooked.

That wasn’t what Amélie was thinking about. And perhaps ‘thinking’ wasn’t even the right word, except it _felt_  right at first until Widow realised what it was.

It started out small. A little flash when the girl interrupted at all. A bigger one when she started shooting. Annoyance? Perhaps.

Widow had never had anyone defend one of her targets before. Had never seen someone look as crushed as this girl did – and for someone she didn’t even know!

And then she’d asked _why_ , and Widow couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. Poor, stupid, foolish girl. 

“Adieu, chérie,” she’d said, almost mocking her. In the moment, it had caused a flutter in her chest and a smirk to rise to her lips.

Now, now it just leaves a sour taste in her mouth – and one she knows Amélie has caused.

She doesn’t know what her counterpart is up to, and she doesn’t know if she wants to let it continue or not.

* * *

The next time she meets the girl – Tracer, she’s learnt in the interim – she stumbles.

It’s small. Barely noticeable to anybody but Widow.

It’s enough.

She pauses the now familiar dance between rooftops, eyes scouring the concrete and brick. Tracer is off in the distance, though rapidly catching up. Heavens, if her machine wasn’t a lighthouse, her voice would give her location away all the same.

And then she hears something else.

 _Let me, Widow,_  Amélie says. _Just let me talk to her_.

She’s been thinking hard, thinking _loud_  all week. Thinking things she censors, and encrypts. Thinking things that Widow wouldn’t like, and things she wouldn’t hate.

She tells herself it’s just curiosity when she relinquishes some control (some; not all). She tells herself it’s just to shut Amélie up.

She tells herself that it’s not because she wants to see where this goes.

Amélie drops Widow’s Kiss, and Widowmaker flinches. If it’s damaged…

But, she isn’t given a chance to think on that because, now that she’s got the opportunity, Amélie’s taking full advantage.

Oh _God_  is this how she feels all the time? Widow, relegated to the back, doesn’t know how to deal with all the new information. Doesn’t know where to start. There’s so much pressing down on her – how was Amélie even able to make herself heard through all the _noise_?

It calms down, gradually. She takes a breath – or the equivalent-of, in this strange half-state of being – and focuses on the interactions playing out in front of her.

Amélie knows enough not to give away any sensitive information. Still, it’s obvious she’s relishing being in control.

There’s a smile on her face, and that more than anything seems to be unnerving Tracer. It’s not mocking. It’s soft and sincere. And then Widow hears the words.

“We won’t attack you,” Amélie says. 

“…Why not?” Tracer asks, scepticism rife in her tone. Widow wants to ask the same thing. Amélie has no power to stop her, if and when the time came to take her out.

But Amélie just sighs. Turns away from Tracer, just a little. “It would be nice,” she begins, “To know someone kind…”

Widow can feel Tracer staring, and the snort that erupts from her serves only as confirmation. “Wha’, like a _mate_?” she asks. “You gotta be kidding me.”

For the first time, Widow actually wishes Amélie would speak. Silence is as good as an answer, something Tracer seems to understand.

 _Enough,_  Widow says. _Let me back._

_I will, please trust me._

She doesn’t, of course, but Amélie holds on, just a little tighter. She takes a step forward, even as Widow tries to hold her back. She can feel the panic rising, not in her, but in Amélie. Her stomach rolls, her sick heart puttering.

Widow leaps forward, desperate to regain control of herself just as Amélie whispers, “Forgive me,” and takes Tracer’s head within her hands.

She lets go of control seconds into it, and then it’s not Amélie, with her lips pressed against Tracer, but Widow. The force of the change has her pushing Tracer back.

She feels something soft touch her tongue before she’s wrenching herself away.

Tracer says nothing; Widow doesn’t believe this girl spends much time silent. She sneers.

“Just because Amélie has taken a shine to you doesn’t mean I have,” she says. Her lips tingle as though they’ve been struck. She watches as Tracer’s hand lifts to her own.

“You’ll honour the agreement, though?” she calls out, just as Widow bends low to pick up her rifle. “You won’t hurt me.”

Widow laughs, just like that first time, but it doesn’t feel good. It’s not mirthful, however much she wishes it were.

She can feel Amélie, cowering in her head. Awaiting retaliation of some kind; by now, it’s obvious her feelings. Widow looks down on Tracer. It would be so easy to hurt them both.

But then, a small part of her – _her_ , not Amélie. Not the parts that Talon own and control; _her_ – knows that she couldn’t. Not now.

She understands how Amélie feels, and almost hates her for it. But, there’s another emotion, one she has only come to associate with the kill; a person’s death would induce such a _rush_.

Their life should not do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you liked it, please think about just leaving a little note! If you didn't, lemme know too, and I'll do my best to improve :)


	7. pas moi, deuxième partie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> widow and amelie cohabitate the same body; it has its problems, especially when what they want don’t exactly line up. case in point: tracer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont like this part as much but it was hard mostly because i had to write it on a different computer and. idk. it’s uncomfortable. i couldn’t focus
> 
> :| 
> 
> enjoy

She arrives home in close enough condition to call it a daze. Amélie hasn’t said a word.

For the first time in a very long time, her head is silent. Empty. It’s unnerving.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she takes in the spartan room around her. Comfort was never anything she’d bothered with, much to Amélie’s disgust.

Perhaps that was why she’d done it. Her own, petty revenge for being here in the first place.

It takes hours, but finally she feels Amélie creeping back. She waits another half-hour because she’s still angry.

Of course, Amélie can feel it. Widow knows that now. Amélie feels _everything_.

_I’m sorry…_

_For what, Amélie? Which of your actions tonight are you sorry about? Taking over? Refusing to let me back? Was it the deal, or the—_ Widow’s hand curls around itself for a second, _—the kiss?_

Amélie doesn’t reply, so Widow does it for her.

 _Just go. Leave. Get away. I don’t want you here right now. Come back when you have an answer and I am less inclined to tell Talon of your actions_.

She feels the other woman back away, though Amélie has a final word before she vanishes.

_Please… don’t be angry at Tracer…_

She’s gone before Widow has a chance to question her.

It’s probably for the best.

* * *

Widow finds it impossible to sleep in the succeeding nights. There’s no tangible reason for her discomfit. It’s not because of Amélie.

Amélie still hasn’t come back.

At least, not when Widow can chastise her. There’s little she can do while her consciousness rests and her subconscious takes over, filling her head with visions and thoughts that she doesn’t want.

Tracer appears there often. Perhaps this was what Amélie didn’t want her to get angry about. Perhaps its the way that the dreams never change, that they always relay precisely what happened.

Widow can’t forget the feeling of Tracer’s tongue, gently prodding her own.

It takes a week of this kind of torture for her to begin to understand (not break, no. She’ll never break again) what, exactly, is causing Amélie’s thoughts to bleed through to her own.

What’s causing her to wake up, skin clammy and pathetic heart sputtering along.

Even when Amélie returns, it doesn’t stop. She hasn’t tried to apologise again; has barely said two words to Widow.

Both of them, in a way, are grateful when they’re given the next mission.

* * *

It should be easy. Break into a museum, and steal a hilariously under-protected artifact. Widow could probably do it on her own.

Though, she’s still grateful when Reaper tags along. It makes it easier to do her job when she’s not fending off sentient gorillas.

Everything goes to shit, however, when Tracer arrives.

Shooting her is just habit. Missing her seems to be a trend.

Failing her mission? She’s going to blame that one on Amélie.

Not because she can – Widow can take responsibility for her own mistakes and errors – but because it is Amélie’s fault.

As soon as Tracer appears, a quip already slipping from her lips, Amélie seems to just surge. If she had a face, it would be _beaming_. Something fills Widow’s head along with it, and she barely manages to grapple away, shooting at the same time.

If she ever had a shot of hitting Tracer, it vanishes when Amélie forces her to miss.

She finally manages to subdue her other half, though Tracer’s glee still rings through the foyer, distracting her. She’s grateful when Reaper takes over, and she forces herself back on task as Tracer’s machine seems to die.

It still all goes to hell. Tracer’s machine begins working again, and Amélie won’t stay quiet. The gauntlet vanishes into the hands of a child, and Widowmaker has hardly a second to react before she’s being struck with it.

And then she vanishes, and Amélie is forced to take over. She doesn’t have the training that Widow does, and Tracer quickly takes her down. It’s embarrassing, though looking through the eyes of her counterpart, Widow has to give it to Amélie – at least she gives it a shot.

That being said, seconds later, after Widow’s Kiss has been taken and she’s back flipping to safety, Widowmaker gains enough control back to realise that it wasn’t pure inexperience that let Tracer get away.

She grapples up before Amélie can do any more damage, forsaking her weapon in order to just give them some distance from Tracer.

She doesn’t know how she’s going to explain her lost weapon.

 _I tried_ , Amélie says. _I’m sorry_.

Widow doesn’t say a word.

* * *

She refuses to return to Talon without her weapon. It’s the one thing that is truly hers; Reaper doesn’t understand, but neither does he argue.

“Don’t get caught,” he warns before vanishing in a cloud of smoke.

Widow has no plans to be seen.

Amélie has a different idea.

 _Just ask her_ , she murmurs, looking through Widow’s eyes and into the apartment below. _Tracer’s not bad. I’m sure she’ll give it back_.

Never, not once in the five years of their strange partnership, has Amélie ever displayed the capacity for harbouring an ulterior motive, let alone actually pursuing it.

Thus, Widow disregards the idea immediately, partially out of spite, and partially because there’s no need to. She can get in and out of the apartment within seconds, and without Tracer ever realising she was there.

She waits another fifteen minutes before making her way to the balcony. The door is unlocked, and there’s the sound of running water coming from the bathroom as she steps silently inside.

It’s much cosier than her own small place, with pictures on the walls and strange decor. The girl is a _robot égalitaire_ , and her apartment shows it.

There’s a photograph of her kissing the cheek of one of them. Hmm. A big fan, then.

Widow shakes herself. Weapon first, then she can…browse.

Turning away, she freezes completely, eyes wide.

The shower is still running, but Tracer isn’t in it. Never has been, if the stupid orange jumpsuit says anything. Of course, Widow is looking less at the clothes and more at the rifle in Tracer’s tiny hands.

“Lookin’ for this, luv?” she asks, and it’s very obvious she means the rifle hefted in her arms.

It’s much too big for her.

“ _Tu as l'air ridicule_.”

To her surprise, Tracer’s face lights up, and she gives a grin almost as wide as her glasses.

…Which are not on her face. Neither is the machine strapped to her chest. She looks very… casual.

“Are you going to give me back my weapon or not?” Widow asks, more to distract herself. The last thing she needs right now is Amélie in control again – and with how her counterpart is sitting just on the edge of her consciousness, it’s obvious that she very much wants another chance to interact with Tracer.

That’s what Tracer seems to want, too, because she purses her lips and says, “I’ll give it back. One condition, though: I wanna talk to Amélie.”

 _Merde_ , that wasn’t going to happen. Widow steps forward, an angered snarl already forming on her face, when Tracer swings the rifle up.

“I missed today, luv,” she says. “I won’t tonight.”

The situation is rapidly spiralling out of her control – if she ever had any to begin with – and that would only get worse if she let Amélie take over. The last thing Widow wants to do is relinquish herself again.

“You can talk to me. You don’t need to talk to Amélie.”

Tracer snorts. “Yeah, right. You’re not the one who kissed me.”

Widow’s eyes narrow for a second. “Amélie is not the one you kissed back,” she counters.

She can feel Amélie in the back of her mind, begging for another chance. Tracer’s tapping her finger impatiently on the rifle still in her hands, though it’s no longer pointed at Widow and she has a pretty blush across her cheeks.

“Fine! Fine! One conversation. Do not make me regret this.”

The words are spoken mostly as a warning to Amélie, but in the seconds before she’s overtaken, she can see Tracer take a single step forward.

And then, she’s gone, and in her place, Amélie.


	8. (don't) Leave Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out they're not the only to use Overwatch's safe houses for a bit of alone time. They're just the only ones who can't afford to let it get out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not part of the previous chapter (though there will be a third part dont worry >:D ). i wanted some established widowtracer, so there we go.

"You need to leave."

The words are whispered hurried and low, an interruption to the late evening. They barely register, for a moment. The moonlight drifts through the venetian blinds, though next to Lena's machine, it fails to illuminate the small bedroom.

It's an unfamiliar room, though it takes very little for the two of them to make it a home, if only for the single night they end up staying. It's too dangerous, especially for her. They can't use Talon's safehouses; Overwatch's is the next best option.

When finally Widow – no, not her. _Amélie_  – realises exactly what Lena has said, her mind kicks into overdrive, and she knows the urgency in Lena's tone isn't without reason.

The crunch of gravel, and a key, turning in a lock.

She rolls to her feet, her training kicking in as she moves, collecting her clothes and belongings from where they're strewn across the carpeted floor. Lena's machine glows, a beacon in the dark, lighting her way.

"Hurry," Lena hisses, tugging on her own clothes. Amélie knows what she's thinking. She's going to stall them, give her time to get away. She, at least, has an excuse. But- no, Amélie won't let her!

"Come with me," she says, pulling Lena closer to her. "We can make it together!" There's desperation in her tone, one that couldn't have lived there only a few months prior. But so many things have changed.

"I can't," she whispers. Already, they can hear a doorbell. "I can't," Lena repeats, firmer and yet somehow even less convincing than the first time.

" _S'il te plaît, ma chérie_ ," she breaths. "We don't have to stay here!" There's more, unspoken in her eyes. _We don't have to stay with_ them _. We could be free!_

But, even as she looks at Tracer – her Lena, her lover – she knows what the answer will be. Lena loves her life with Overwatch. She chose it, after all.

And suddenly, Amélie is angry. She pushes Lena away and finishes pulling on her last boot.

"Amé..."

"There's no time," Amélie interrupts, voice harsh. She sounds angry, though Lena's known her long enough to know better.

She's afraid. Vulnerable.

So Lena takes a step forward to press their lips solidly together.

"I'll meet you," she says. "Come- come to my apartment." She gives one more bruising kiss before she's pushing Amélie towards the window. She shouldn't have suggested that, she knows. It's too dangerous, and once they start, they won't be able to stop. But...

It beats this. The running. The secrecy. Perhaps, there, they could really be... together

By the time Angela and Fareeha round the corner, Lena's all alone, staring into the sky.


	9. What's in a name?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately for Lena, her girlfriend's name is a bit too similar to a certain sniper's...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt given to me on ao3 from nightelfbane, actually. this is mostly crack but the ending was sweeter than i was going for. also possibly OOC but also possibly because it’s a slightly non-canon world (also, did i mention the crack?). Deviates (a lot) from the original prompt but the promp-giver said it was fine. this was more fun for me to write anyway :D

Tracer was being even more of a pain than usual.

And considering they’d only met once before, when the shorter Brit was trying very hard to not let an Omnic become another piece of trash, that was saying something.

There was no reason she – Widow, Sombra, god even Captain ‘back from the dead’ Amari – needed to be here! What kind of matchmaking was this, Talon and Overwatch teaming up? Ugh, it was an insult.

Especially because that god dammed monkey was also here.

Really, they should be dead. But, no. Instead, they were all alive and well, walking alongside a slow-moving truck in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Everyone was sitting on it at this point, except for Tracer.

“Ah, go easy on 'em, _chica_ ,” Sombra purred, obviously noticing Widow’s bad attitude. “One mission and we’re done.”

That was easy for her to say. Widow kept her eyes trained on the young agent, watching her as she bounced around the… whatever it was they were escorting. She didn’t know and she didn’t care. The only thing she cared about was getting this over and done with. The urge to put a bullet through Tracer’s foot was only getting stronger by the moment.

Of course, the girl chose that moment to pause looking at Widow with a tilt to her head.

“Wotcha lookin’ at?”

Widow’s eyes narrowed. “An annoyance.”

Infuriatingly, she didn’t seem fazed. In fact, she broke out into a wide grin and resumed her dancing around the payload. Vehicle. Whatever.

“You can’t hurt me,” she sang, “because I’ve got a hot date tonight~”

No one showed the slightest interest in her – in fact, Widow was pretty sure that the monkey was asleep – so she pushed on anyway. Even Sombra tuned her out, quite literally turning up one of her augs so even Widow could hear the mariachi music.

“Yeah-huh. Me 'n’ Emily are going to this great new restaurant, and-”

She was interrupted when Sombra reappeared from the air, hands still held up. The music stopped abruptly.

“Hold on, _Amélie_?”

Widow snorted.

“No, _Emily_. Completely different name.”

Winston snorted, waking himself up just enough to say, “What’s that, Lena? You and Amélie have a date? I wasn’t aware the two of you were involved.”

“Emily! EM. IL. Y.”

“Amélie is a very pretty name, dear,” the captain said. The first words she’d said, actually. “While it may not be usual, you should always fight for what you believe in.”

Tracer looked helplessly at the one woman who could put a stop to this. Sighing, Widow stood up, stretching as the payload shifted beneath her feet. Jumping down, she walked over to Tracer and bent low enough to be eye level.

“Ah, _ma chérie_. You are… embarrassed of me? You would not even tell your dear friends of our… courting?”

Tracer turned a strange shade of puce as she sputtered for a response. “ _Courting_?”

Widow turned away and shrugged. “It sounded better than 'wild animal sex’. No need to be ashamed, _ma chérie_. I assure you, the handcuffs are well-hidden. Though your doctor may want to check your rope-burn…” she added, almost as an afterthought. Someone gave a snort, and it was probably Sombra.

Tracer made a low sound in her throat before she threw her hands in the air. “Fine, you guys win. And suck. You mostly suck. I’m going home.”

“Don’t get started without me!” Widow called after her as she stormed away. Tracer flipped her the bird before blinking away.

Hmm. Perhaps teaming up with Overwatch wasn’t all bad. Teasing Tracer was probably more fun than killing her was going to be, especially if she got a reaction like that.

The ghost of a smile stayed on her lips all day. It only reappeared in full-force after Lena came home from her date and noticed a single rose sitting on her coffee table, a note tied to it.

“ _Bonne chance avec ta chérie_ ,” it said. Watching through her scope, Widow could see Lena look out the window, almost directly where she was. She could see Lena grip the rose tightly, cradling it to her chest.

She could see the smile that stayed there, all through the long night.


End file.
